UC-NRLF 


$B    25M    012 


TERKCLEY 
LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 


SEAWEEDS 


PROM   THE 


SHORES    OF    NANTUCKET. 


BOSTON : 
CROSBY,    NICHOLS,  AND   COMPANY. 

NEW  YORK  :    C.  S.  FRANCIS  &  CO. 

1853. 


LOAN  STACK 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1853,  by 

CROSBY,    NICHOLS,   AND    COMPANY, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


BOSTON: 

PRINTED    BY    JOHN    WILSON    AND    SON, 
No.  22,  SCHOOL  STKEKT. 


PREFACE. 


BUT  few  of  the  articles  composing  this  little  collection  were 
intended  to  meet  the  public  eye.  The  greater  part  are 
the  productions  of  youth,  and  were  written  merely  for  the 
amusement  of  the  passing  hour  ;  but  application  having 
been  made  to  the  writers  (or,  where  this  could  not  be  done, 
to  their  immediate  friends)  to  allow  them  to  appear  in  print, 
permission  has  been  kindly  granted. 

The  contributors  are  natives  of  Nantucket ;  and  that  this 
volume  may  serve  as  a  memento  of  them,  and,  as  such,  pos 
sess  an  interest  for  their  friends,  is  all  that  is  expected. 

L.  c.  s. 

NANTUCKET,  FEBRUARY,  1853. 


,347 


CONTENTS. 


The  asterisk  (*)  after  the  title  denotes  that  the  writer  of  the  article  is 
not  living. 


PAGE 

MY  NATIVE  ISLE 1 

FAREWELL  LINES  TO  A  FRIEND  *        ....  5 

THE  ISLE  OF  THE  SEA  * 7 

To  A  SPIDER  * 13 

STANZAS  * 16 

REPLY  TO  THE  ETTRICK.  SHEPHERD  *          .        .        .    '••'-•*•& 

HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE  * 21 

THOU  WAST  NOT  THERE     .         .         .         .        V--  v.  23 

SOLILOQUY  OVER  AN  OWL      .        .        .        .aV-'v-*    .  26 

ON  SEEING  A  PICTURE  OF  TRENTON  FALLS          .        .  29 

PALESTINE 31 

PARODY  ON  "  A  MAN'S  A  MAN  FOR  A'  THAT  "     .        .  34 

STANZAS  TO 37 

THE  Music  OF  THE  TOWER 39 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FRIEND  * 42 

THE  ^SOLIAN  HARP 45 

MY  GENTLE  FRIEND 47 

AN  OLD  STORY 49 


VI  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  HARPER 52 

"  OH  !  WOULD  SOME  FAIRY  SPELL  WERE  MINE  "  57 

A  VALENTINE 60 

A  PAIR  OP  SONNETS 63 

LINES  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY 65 

THOU  ART  NOT  FORGOTTEN 68 

THE  FIRST  OP  MAY  * 70 

AUTUMN  THOUGHTS 72 

TELL  ME,  WHERE  DO  THE  FAIRIES  DWELL  ?  .         .         .74 

A  DECEMBER  EVENING 76 

QUEBEC 80 

NATURE 82 

THE  MANIAC 85 

LILLIBEL 86 

SEAWEED 89 

EDUCATION 92 

THE  FISHERMAN 95 

HYMN  OF  THE  WASHER- WOMAN        ....  100 

AFTER  THE  CROSS,  THE  CROWN 102 

NOTCHES 104 

GOD'S  PRESENCE 106 

WEBSTER 108 

SPEAK  GENTLY Ill 

LINES  TO  E E, 114 

MUSINGS 116 

To  MY  WIFE >.:.-..  124 

SLAVERY /s     ;  .        .  127 

DEATH  OF  PAUL  DOMBEY        .  131 


SEAWEEDS 


SHORES     OF     NANTUCKET. 


* 

MY  NATIVE   ISLE. 


Is  there  within  wide  nature's  bound, 
In  realms  above  or  depths  profound, 

Or  on  this  globe  terrene, 
A  goddess  shrewd,  as  Pallas  wise, 
Or  spirit  of  infernal  guise, 

Or  aught  of  mortal  mien ;  — 

Is  there  no  sylph  of  wood  or  mead, 
No  sea-nymph  in  her  watery  bed, 

No  genii  of  the  Nile ; 
No  one  in  mountain,  grot,  or  dell, 
Invested  with  the  power  to  tell 

Whence  sprung  my  Native  Isle  ? 
1 


MY   NATIVE    ISLE. 

Was  it  from  ocean's  coral  caves, 
Tossed  by  old  Neptune  to  the  waves, 

A  gift  in  merry  glee  ? 
And  will  lie  not  some  future  day, 
In  wonder  at  its  lengthened  stay, 

Back  hurl  it  to  the  sea  ? 

Or  was  it  severed  from  the  shore 
Of  neighboring  lands,  in  days  of  yore, 

By  strong  volcanic  shock  ? 
Hurled  into  the  Atlantic  Main, 
A  barren,  sandy,  dreary  plain,  — 

A  bit  without  a  rock  ? 

Perchance  it  floated  from  the  North, 
Issued  from  Zembla's  regions  forth, 

To  find  a  kinder  sky ; 
Perchance  it  may  again  set  sail, 
Propelled  by  Boreas'  favoring  gale, 

The  torrid  zone  to  try. 


MY   NATIVE   ISLE. 

Undecked,  unlovely  as  thou  art, 

A  speck  upon  the  world's  great  chart, 

Thou  art  our  native  spot ; 
And  true  to  nature,  still  we  love, 
And  by  affection  still  we  prove, 

Thy  faults  can  be  forgot. 

We  know  the  grandest,  loftiest  pines 
Have  left  to  grace  more  genial  climes, 

Yet  lovely  plants  here  thrive  ; 
The  violet  bland,  and  violet  blue, 
And  violet  of  cerulean  hue, 

Betoken  spring  's  alive. 

Thy  fatal  shores  and  sandy  shoals, 
Round  which  the  foaming  white-cap  rolls, 

All  hopes  of  safety  blast ; 
The  pale,  affrighted  sailor  eyes 
The  dangers  that  around  thee  rise, 

And  turns  away  aghast. 


MY   NATIVE    ISLE. 

Hence,  all  ye  light,  fantastic  schemes, 
Teeming  with  fancy's  flimsy  dreams, 

No  more  my  thoughts  beguile  : 
It  is  not  in  your  power  to  tell 
Who  tossed  it  up  on  ocean's  swell, 
From  what  empyrean  realms  it  fell, 

Or  whence  my  Native  Isle. 


FAREWELL  LINES, 

ADDRESSED        TO      A      FRIEND. 
L.  W.  C. 

THY  kind  attentions,  Phebe  dear, 

By  me  will  never  be  forgot ; 
'Twill  be  the  theme  of  many  a  year, 

Whate'er  may  be  my  future  lot. 

A  stranger  unto  you  I  came, 
Yet  tenderly  have  been  caressed : 

While  life  shall  animate  this  frame, 
Your  kindness  shall  possess  my  breast. 

So  kindly  I  have  been  received, 
My  heart  forgot  each  wish  to  roam ; 

I  fancied  first,  and  then  believed, 
'Twas  but  another  name  for  home. 


6  FAREWELL    LINES. 

Now  duty  summons  me  away, 
My  sand-girt  Isle  allures  me  too : 

Yet,  yet  forgive  my  lingering  stay, 
To  bid  the  friends  beloved,  adieu. 

Farewell  to  thee,  my  youthful  friend ; 

May  heavenly  wisdom  gild  thy  days  ; 
May  guardian  angels  thee  defend, 

And  lead  thee  through  life's  dangerous  maze. 

May  science  fair  thy  brows  entwine ; 

Mayst  thou  be  rich  in  wisdom's  lore ; 
Mayst  thou  Fame's  rugged  ascent  climb, 

And  every  classic  path  explore. 

May  Genius  weave  a  garland  fair, 

And  cull  her  pearls  from  learning's  stem, 

And  thee  select  the  same  to  wear, 
As  fittest  for  her  diadem. 
South  Yarmouth,  1815. 


THE  ISLE  OF  THE  SEA. 


H.    G 


OH,  know  ye  that  Isle  from  the  green  ocean  rising, 
Begirt  with  the  banks  of  the  mariner's  dread, 

Where  the  daughters  are  fair,  and  the  sons  enter 
prising, 
And  wisdom  encircles  each  patriarch's  head  ? 

Oh,  know  ye  that  Isle  ?  'Tis  the  Isle  of  my  fathers, 
The  island  that  gave  my  first  breathings  to  me ; 

And  still,  through  long  absence,  far  memory  gathers 
Its  brightest  and  best  from  that  Isle  of  the  Sea. 

'Twas  the  bed  of  my  boyhood,  and  fancy  is  tracing, 
In  visions  by  day  and  in  dreams  of  the  night, 

The  days  of  young  pleasures,  and  sweetly  enchasing 
My  slumbers  with  pictures  of  childish  delight. 


8  THE    ISLE    OF   THE    SEA. 

Though  long  I  have  roamed  o'er  the  fathomless 
ocean, 

And  far  from  the  land  of  the  brave  and  the  free, 
Yet  still  does  my  heart  feel  its  fondest  emotion, 

When  thinking  of  home  in  that  Isle  of  the  Sea. 

There  the  sons  are  all  hardy,  undaunted  and  daring, 
And  brave  in  a  contest  where  heroes  would  quail ; 

And  still  'tis  their  pride,  where  dark  dangers  are 

staring, 
To  meet  the  blue  waters,  and  battle  the  whale. 

Let  subject  greet  slave,  and  let  kings  court  each 
other ; 

Let  the  wealthy,  the  proud,  and  the  warlike  agree ; 
But  I  shall  most  glory  to  hail  him  as  brother, 

Whose  home  is  my  home,  in  that  Isle  of  the  Sea. 

There  the  daughters  are  lovely,  and  yet  unassuming, 
Tho'  gifted  with  beauty  and  sweetness  and  grace, 


THE    ISLE    OF    THE    SEA.  y 

Like  wilderness  roses  in  solitude  blooming, 

They  stand,  the  fair  flowers  of  their  own  dwelling- 
place. 

Let  Spain  boast  its  beauties,  Circassia  its  daughters, 
How  lovely,  how  fair,  how  bewitching  they  be ; 

But  fairer  than  these  are  those  buds  of  the  waters, 
The  maidens  that  bloom  in  that  Isle  of  the  Sea. 

No  groves  of  sweet  myrtle  warm  valleys  are  shad 
ing; 
No  trees,  through  mild  seasons,  are  blossoming 

there ; 

No  spices,  with  fragrance,  the  breezes  are  lading ; 
No  birds,  with  mild  music,  rejoicing  the  air  : 

But  the  hearts  of  its  people  are  bowers  of  myrtles, 
And  each  maiden  blossoms  a  cinnamon-tree ; 

Their  loves  are  its  perfumes,  their  voices  the  turtles, 
That  scatter  delight  o'er  that  Isle  of  the  Sea. 


10  THE   ISLE    OP   THE    SEA. 

There,  no  valleys  with  rich  cultivation  are  teeming, 
And  few  are  the  corn-fields  that  bend   to  the 

breeze ; 
No   plains   of  young   promise   in   spring-suns   are 

gleaming, 
But  small  is  the  harvest  the  husbandman  sees. 

Though   sterile   its   vales,   yet  the  depths   of  the 

ocean 
Feel  the  plough  of  its  sons,  and  surrender  their 

fee; 

Unfruitful  its  plains,  but  the  water's  commotion 
Gives. gladness  and  gain  to  that  Isle  of  the  Sea, 

There,  no  golden  spires  meet  the  blush  of  the  morn 
ing, 

No  temples  their  pompous  devotion  display, 
No  proud,  princely  mansions  the  streets  are  adorn 
ing, 
No  halls  lift  their  cap-stones  to  mock  at  decay. 


THE    ISLE    OP   THE    SEA.  11 

But  the  stranger  there  finds,  in  each  humble  dwell 
ing? 
Kind  brotherly  greeting,  hearts  open  and  free ; 

And  prayers  for*the  humble  far  upwards  are  swell 
ing 
From  each  lonely  shrine  in  that  Isle  of  the  Sea. 

Oh  ye  who  but  revel,  where  pomp  and  parading 
Illume  the  broad  city,  and  gild  the  gay  street ; 

And   ye   that   but   slumber  where   woodbines   are 

shading, 
Or  ramble  where  flowerets  are  kissing  your  feet ; 

Come  not  to  that  island,  for  small  is  the  measure 
Of  wealth  or  of  verdure  its  works  would  display ; 

Come  not  to  that  island,  for  brief  is  the  pleasure 
Your  hearts  would  enjoy  in  that  Isle  of  the  Sea. 

But  come  to  that  island,  each  brother  in  feeling, 
And  ye  who  can  call  it  your  birthplace  and  home ; 


14  TO    A    SPIDER. 

Sometimes  I  think  'tis  "  Nickey  Ben ; 
And,  wi'  an  awfu'  smash,  I'd  sen' 
Ye  headlong  down ;  yet  often  when, 

Too  oft,  alas ! 
I  think  upo'  my  fellow-men, 

I  let  ye  pass. 

Yes,  e'en  like  you,  do  mankind  set, 
Concealed,  the  dark  malignant  net ; 
And  when  wi'  management  they  get 

Ane  i'  their  toils, 
Ilk  hypocrite  will  him  beset, 

To  share  the  spoils. 

Te  do  na'  herd  to  mak'  confusion, 
Nor  do  ye  wi'  a  foul  allusion 
E'er  hurl  the  shaft  o'  persecution 

Against  yer  race ; 
Yet  they  wha  practise  maist  delusion 

Talk  maist  o'  grace. 


TO    A    SPIDEK.  15 

Ye  hae  nae  faith,  or  creeds  to  sell, 

Ye  lanely,  patient  sentinel ; 

Ye  do  na  wish  condemned  to  hell, 

As  Satan's  minion, 
Ilk  spider,  wha  weaves  for  himsel' 

His  ain  opinion. 

Ml 
Ye  canna  change  yer  ugly  face ; 

Ye  do  na  fawn  to  get  a  place ; 
Nor  do  ye  persecute  yer  race, 

Yer  poke  to  fill : 
Ye'd  sooner  live,  wi'out  disgrace, 

A  spider  still. 

Nantucket,  1827. 


16 


STANZAS. 

W.    C.,   JUN. 

I  HAVE  walked  on  the  shore  when  the  moon  was 

bright, 

When  the  rippling  wave  has  reflected  her  light ; 
In  the  glare  of  her  beam,  in  that  murmuring  wave, 
Where  fairies  might  revel,  and  naiads  might  lave, 
Bright  fancy  has  pictured  the  light  of  thine  eye, 
And  with  rapture  imagined  a  brother's  warm  sigh : 
Alone,  yet  not  lonely,  I've  wandered  there ; 
For  the  soul  has  no  thought  which  a  soul  may  not 

share. 

In  the  bustle  of  life,  I  have  mingled  with  men ; 
The  courts  we  once  trod,  I  have  trodden  again ; 
Each  scene  that  gave  pleasure,  my  joy  has  renewed, 
And  in  every  place  that  loved  form  I  have  viewed. 


STANZAS.  17 

'Twas  a  fiction  of  thought,  'twas  a  fanciful  form, 
Yet  just  to  the  life,  and  as  vivid  and  warm ; 
'Twas  the  substance  of  sentiment,  imaged  by  mind ; 
'Twas  the  converse  of  soul,  unrestrained  and  refined. 

I  have  seen  thee  oft  in  the  visions  of  night, 
When  fancy  is  real,  and  thought  is  sight ; 
And,  waking,  have  loved  that  dear  form  to  retrace, 
Thy  words  to  recall,  to  rekindle  thy  face. 
'Tis  not  memory's  sketch,  —  I  see  thee  now ; 
'Tis  the  beam  of  thy  eye,  'tis  thy  manly  brow ; 
And  yet,  yet  I  see  —  oh !  it  never  can  die  — 
The  fire  of  thy  soul  in  the  glance  of  thy  eye. 

Nantucket,  1832. 


18 


REPLY   TO    SOME   LINES   ADDRESSED    TO   THE 
AUTHOR  BY  THE  ETTRICK  SHEPHERD. 

A.   B.    P. 

DEAR  Bard,  the  sweet  notes  of  the  lyre  thou  hast 

sent  me 

Make  the  heart  in  my  bosom  leap  free  of  control ; 
They  have  shed  o'er  my  senses  such  spells  as  en 
chant  me, 
And  have  pierced  to  the  inmost  recess  of  my  soul. 

Oh,  would  that  my  fortune,  whose  treacherous  gay 

feather 
Oft  fanned  me  in  slumbers  of  childhood's  sweet 

dream, 
Had  but  made  me  a  couch  there  among  the  green 

heather 

That  grows  on   the   borders   of  Yarrow's  pure 
stream ! 


KEPLY   TO    LINES.  19 

For  there,  at  the  earliest  peep  of  the  morning, 
The  feet  of  the  generous  young  shepherd  had 

strayed ; 

And,  ere  evening's  last  rays  were  the  hill-tops  adorn 
ing, 
My  heart  had  rejoiced  in  the  friend  I  had  made. 

Then  slung  o'er  my  shoulder  his  crook  and  his  wallet, 
I'd  have  trotted  beside  him  o'er  Ettrick's  green 
braes ; 

Caught  the  fire  of  his  song  as  with  glee  he'd  carol  it, 
And  learned  to  chant  with  him  his  musical  lays. 

And  when  penned  was  the  fold,  and  at  night  when 

retiring, 

To  bear  a  kind  word  to  the  lass  of  his  love, 
As  the  last  fleeting  rays  of  the  day  were  expiring, 
I'd  have  flown  o'er  the  mountain  more  fleet  than 
the  dove. 


20  REPLY   TO    LINES. 

But,  alas !  I  was  doomed  to  the  treacherous  ocean, 
And  how  long  I  must  plough  it,  time  only  can 

tell; 
But   my  heart  will   still   glow   with   the  warmest 

emotion, 

When  I  think  of  thy  kindness  :  dear  Shepherd, 
farewell. 

Scotland,  1832. 


21 


HENRY   KIRKE  WHITE. 


C.    B. 


WELL  may  the  gifted  sons  of  Genius  weep, 
When  spirits  bright  as  his  have  passed  away ; 
Well  may  the  spot,  where  low  his  ashes  sleep, 
Be  crowned  with  laurel  and  the  well-earned  bay. 
His  was  a  master-hand :  the  trembling  strings, 
Beneath  his  touch,  a  deathless  measure  woke ; 
Like  some  -<Eolian  melody,  it  flings 
Heart,  soul,  thought,  feeling,  in  one  mighty  stroke. 
Mighty,  yet  tender,  as  the  plaintive  wail, 
The  mournful  death-note  of  the  widowed  dove ; 
Or  piteous  plaint  of-  lonely  nightingale, 
Mourning  her  young,  her  treasured,  only  love. 


22  HEXRY   KIRKE    WHITE. 

Mournful,  yet  sweet ;  a  gentle  influence  breathing, 
Thrilling  the  soul  that  lists  its  syren-strain ; 
Soft  as  the  zephyrs  summer  flowers  are  wreathing 
In  classic  grove,  or  famed  Arcadian  plain ; 
Pure  as  if  penned  by  Inspiration  warm, 
From  "  Castaly,  enchastened  with  its  dews ; " 
Free  from  the  heart,  one  deep,  melodious  strain 
Declares  the  favored  offspring  of  the  Muse. 

Nantucket,  1833. 


23 


THOU  WAST   NOT   THERE. 

L.   B. 

I  STOOD  amid  the  joyous  throng 

Of  spirits  light  and  gay ; 
I  heard  the  jest,  I  marked  the  song, 

But  thought  was  far  away  : 
How  could  my  brow  be  aught  but  dull  ? 

Their  mirth  how  could  I  share  ? 
My  cheek  was  wet,  my  heart  was  full, 

For,  ah !  thou  wast  not  there. 


Though  friends  long  loved  were  hovering  round, 

Whose  voices  met  my  ear, 
Yet,  ah !  it  was  of  thine  the  sound 

That  still  I  seemed  to  hear ; 


24:  THOU   WAST   NOT    THERE. 

And  oft  they  lured  me  to  a  smile, 
That  seemed  to  banish  care  : 

They  little  thought  that,  all  the  while, 
I  felt  —  thou  wast  not  there. 

Can  aught  the  spirit's  blight  restore  ? 

Can  hearts  once  broke  be  healed  ? 
When  one  so  loved  is  seen  no  more, 

Can  aught  a  solace  yield  ? 
Oh,  no  !  for  'mid  life's  happiest  hour, 

If  this  thou  didst  not  share, 
I  still  must  feel  the  magic  power 

Of — "Ah,  thou  wast  not  there!" 

Nantucket,  1836. 


25 


SOLILOQUY  OVER  THE  DEAD  BODY  OF 
AN  OWL. 

WHICH  DIED  FROM  A  WOUND  RECEIVED  BY  A  SHOT  FROM  A  SPORTSMAN'S  GUff. 


DEPARTED  Bird !  at  Wisdom's  shrine, 
'Twas  thine  in  days  of  yore  to  bend : 

Thy  placid  look  and  step  sublime 

Have  marked  thee  still  Minerva's  friend. 

Oh  that  we  could  the  power  have  given 
To  tell  the  woes  thy  bosom  knew, 

When  sportman's  arm  thy  bone  had  riven, 
As  o'er  the  land  thou  noiseless  flew  ! 

On  Greenland's  cliffs  perchance  thou  wandered, 
And  hovered  o'er  that  waste  of  snow : 

Oh,  could  we  know  on  what  thou  pondered, 
Or  whitherward  thou  next  did  go ! 


26  SOLILOQUY    OVER    THE 

Did  other  bipeds  of  that  nation 

Long  speeches  oft  in  conclave  hold  ? 

Did  wise  ones  talk  of  Education, 
And  Temperance  too,  amid  the  cold  ? 

Why  did  thou  not  give  them  an  essay, 
That  tongues  were  made  to  taste  the  food, 

And  speaking  much  to  gain  a  victory 
Was  not  the  way  to  do  them  good  ? 

Did  they  discuss  the  Slavery  question, 
And  nice  disputes  with  ardor  make, 
Of  moral  means  and  legislation  ? 

Or  did  that  subject  make  them  quake  ? 

« 

Phrenology,  that  famous  science,  — 
Was't  oft  a  theme  in  that  cold  clime  ? 

And  did  they  there  place  much  reliance 
On  bumps,  —  as  Order,  Tune,  and  Time  ? 


DEAD   BODY   OF   AN    OWL.  27 

Thy  own  broad  head,  say,  did  they  fix  on, 
Where  every  organ  stretches  wide  ? 

A  cast,  methinks,  would  solve  the  question, 
That  Wisdom's  seat 's  on  either  side. 

Did  they  sometimes  put  folks  to  sleeping, 

Amid  the  jest  of  social  throng? 
And,  into  others'  stomachs  peeping, 

Will  them  to  tell  what's  going  wrong  ? 

Hast  thou  ofttimes  our  island  been  on, 
To  seek  for  food  to  break  thy  fast  ? 

And  did  thou  think  that  thy  broad  pinion 
Had  brought  thee  here  to  breathe  thy  last? 

Alas !  poor  thing,  how  strange  the  issue  ! 

And  little  thought  thou  it  would  be, 
That  vascular  and  nervous  tissue 

Would  be  explained  in  one  like  thee. 


28  SOLILOQUY   OVER   AN    OWL. 

I  trow,  had  Dr.  S possessed  thee, 

He'd  served  thee  up  with  better  skill, 

And  shown  how  bones  with  joints  connect  thee, 
The  nerves  that  feel,  and  those  that  will. 

In  short,  dear  bird,  in  all  thy  wandering, 
What  hast  thou  thought  of  sons  of  men  ? 

Oh !  could  thou  know  my  secret  longing, 
I'm  sure  thou'd  come  to  life  again. 

In  vain  is  all  my  ardent  yearning 

To  animate  thy  lifeless  clay : 
Perhaps  thy  spirit,  free  from  mourning, 

Will  take  another  form  some  day. 

Till  then,  farewell,  —  though  hope  is  blighted, 
And  what  thy  musing  none  can  tell, 

We'll  ne'er  forget  we've  been  delighted 
With  thy  strange  visits,  —  fare  thee  well. 

Nantucket,  1837. 


29 


ON  SEEING   A  PICTURE  OF  TRENTON   FALLS. 


WHEN  such  sweet  scenery  we  have 

In  our  own  native  land, 
Why  need  we  cross  the  Atlantic  wave, 

Unto  a  foreign  strand  ? 
Why  wander  Scotland's  Highlands  through, 
To  seek  the  haunts  of  Roderick  Dhu, 

Or  visit  Ellen's  Isle ; 
Or  climb  the  Swiss's  Alps  of  snow ; 
Or  wend  where  Summer's  ceaseless  glow 

On  fair  Italia  smiles  ? 

With  Scott  and  Burns,  the  favorite  themes 

Of  many  a  tale  and  song, 
Were  their  own  mountains,  glens,  and  streams ; 

And  might  not  ours  be  sung  ? 


30  ON    A   PICTURE    OF   TRENTON   FALLS. 

We  have  a  land  as  fair  as  they ; 
As  rich  and  varied  scenery, 

Though  unimproved  by  art, 
As  ever  charmed  the  traveller's  eye, 
Inspired  the  song  of  minstrelsy, 

Or  warmed  the  patriot's  heart. 

JSfantucket,  1838. 


31 


PALESTINE. 


HAIL,  Holy  Land !  where  Israel  bled, 
May  I  not  by  thy  streams  repose ; 
Or  sip  the  dews  on  Hermon  shed  ; 
Or  deck  my  brow  with  Sharon's  rose  ? 

Though  Syria's  bright  and  scorching  sun 
Sends  down  his  burning  beams  of  day, 
When  Carmel's  grottos  I  have  won, 
Smiling,  I'll  tempt  the  dazzling  ray. 

Here  flowerets  breathe  their  rich  perfume, 
And  twisting  vines  their  banners  spread ; 
On  Gilead's  balm  of  healing  bloom, 
The  pilgrim  rests  his  weary  head. 


32  PALESTINE. 

I  gaze  upon  thy  broken  shrines, 
And  wonder  where  the  builders  are : 
No  minstrels  gather  'neath  thy  vines ; 
No  timbrels  tune  their  anthems  there. 

From  Pisgah's  top  I  gaze  afar : 
Silence  sits  brooding  o'er  the  height 
That  once  was  lit  by  Bethlehem's  star, 
Where  Judah's  shepherds  watched  the  night. 

Chaldea's  sages  all  are  dead, 
And  Horeb's  rock  has  ceased  to  weep ; 
And  Zion  rears  its  holy  head 
Where  Israel's  hosts  in  silence  sleep. 

Where  has  the  warrior's  courser  fled, 
That  arched  his  neck  o'er  Gibeon's  vale ; 
That  plunged  his  hoof  where  heroes  bled, 
And  restless  snuffed  the  tainted  gale  ? 


PALESTINE.  33 

No  more  he  chafes  his  foaming  side, 
Or  proudly  sweeps  o'er  Tabor's  brow, 
Or  bathes  his  breast  in  Jordan's  tide ; 
Not  Sinai's  thunders  fright  him  now. 

Yet  still  I  hail  thee,  Holy  Land : 
Though  death  and  coldness  wrap  thee  round, 
The  timbrel,  touched  by  Miriam's  hand, 
Is  quivering  yet  with  magic  sound. 

Thy  skies  have  still  the  mellow  glow ; 
Thy  heaven  has  still  that  healing  dew 
That  glistened  on  the  minstrel's  brow, 
As  sweet  she  ran  the  mazes  through. 

Oh !  I  could  live  for  ever  here, 
A  dweller  on  these  hills  divine : 
I  linger  yet,  and  dry  the  tear 
That  fain  would  flow  for  Palestine. 

1838. 


PARODY  ON  "A  MAN'S  A  MAN  FOR  A'  THAT." 


THOUGH  stripped  of  all  the  dearest  rights 

Which  nature  claims,  and  a'  that, 
There's  that  which  in  the  slave  unites, 

To  make  the  man  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Though  black  his  skin,  and  a'  that, 
"We  cannot  rob  him  of  his  kind,  — 

The  slave's  a  man  for  a'  that. 

Though  by  his  brother  bought  and  sold, 
And  beat  and  scourged,  and  a'  that, 

His  wrongs  can  ne'er  be  felt  or  told, 
Yet  he's  a  man  for  a'  that. 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

His  body  chained,  and  a'  that, 


PARODY    ON   "A   MAN'S    A    MAN,"   ETC.          35 

The  image  of  his  God  remains,  — 
The  slave's  a  man  for  a'  that. 

How  dark  the  spirit  that  enslaves ! 

Yet  darker  still  than  a'  that, 
He  who,  amid  the  light,  still  craves 

Apologies,  and  a'  that ; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Small  evil  finds,  and  a'  that, 
In  crimes  which  are  of  darkest  hue, 

And  foulest  deeds,  and  a'  that. 

If  those,  who  now  in  bondage  groan, 

Were  white  and  fair,  and  a'  that, 
Oh !  should  we  not  their  fate  bemoan, 

And  plead  their  cause,  and  a'  that  ? 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Would  any  say,  in  a'  that, 
We've  nought  to  do,  they  are  not  here, 

We'll  mind  our  own,  and  a'  that  ? 


36         PARODY   ON   "A   MAN*S   A   MAN,"  ETC. 

Oh !  tell  us  not  they're  clothed  and  fed ; 

Tis  insult,  stuff,  and  a'  that ! 
With  freedom  gone,  all  joy  is  fled ; 

For  Heaven's  best  gift  is  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Free  agency,  and  a'  that, 
We  get  from  Him  who  rules  on  high  ; 

The  slave  we  rob  of  a'  that. 

Then  think  not  to  escape  His  wrath, 

Who's  equal,  just,  and  a'  that ; 
His  warning  voice  is  sounded  forth, 

We  heed  it  not  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

'Tis  not  less  sure  for  a'  that ; 
His  vengeance,  though  'tis  long  delayed, 

Will  come  at  last  for  a'  that. 

Nantucket,  1840. 


37 


STANZAS    TO 


A  MORNING  rose  half-blown ; 

The  thoughtful  light  of  a  star  ; 
Soft  music  on  a  summer's  sea, 

Heard  floating  from  afar ; 

The  rippling  of  the  tide, 

As  it  kisses  the  pebbles  fair ; 

The  perfume  of  earth's  countless  flowers, 
That  loads  the  evening  air ; 

The  lightning's  startling  flash, 

As  it  glances  through  the  heaven ; 

The  gleam  of  the  hurrying  meteor, 
Through  the  waste  above  us  driven ; 


38  STANZAS    TO 


Oh !  nature's  countless  voices, 

How  they  speak  to  the  human  soul ! 

From  all  sides  her  countless  messengers 
On  the  throbbing  spirit  roll. 

But  these  are  tame  and  dead, 
To  the  speaking  human  face, 

Where  feeling,  thought,  and  sentiment 
Assemble  and  embrace. 

Oh !  what  a  glory  covers 

This  human  face  divine ! 
Yet,  even  among  the  heavenliest  ones, 

Preeminent  is  thine. 

Nantucket,  1842. 


39 


THE   MUSIC   OF   THE   TOWER. 


Trinity  Church,  a  very  beautiful  little  edifice  in  Nantucket,  was  de 
stroyed  in  the  great  fire  of  1846.  It  may  be  remembered  that  the  tower 
contained  a  latticed  window,  through  which  the  wind  sighed  forth,  as  an 
2Eolian  Harp,  strains  of  fitful  melody,  "  most  musical,  most  melancholy." 


How  sweet,  how  soothing,  and  how  clear, 
Thou  sacred  tower,  thy  Spirit's  tone 
Sounds  on  the  musing  traveller's  ear, 
Listening  and  lone ! 

Earnest  and  deep  that  Spirit  calls,  — 
Speaks  to  the  wearied  soul  of  home ; 
Of  holy  rest  within  these  walls : 
"  Come,  hither  come." 


38  STANZAS    TO 


Oh !  nature's  countless  voices, 

How  they  speak  to  the  human  soul ! 

From  all  sides  her  countless  messengers 
On  the  throbbing  spirit  roll. 

But  these  are  tame  and  dead, 
To  the  speaking  human  face, 

Where  feeling,  thought,  and  sentiment 
Assemble  and  embrace. 

Oh !  what  a  glory  covers 

This  human  face  divine ! 
Yet,  even  among  the  heavenliest  ones, 

Preeminent  is  thine. 

Nantucket,  1842. 


39 


THE   MUSIC   OF   THE   TOWER. 


Trinity  Church,  a  very  beautiful  little  edifice  in  Nantucket,  was  de 
stroyed  in  the  great  fire  of  1846.  It  may  be  remembered  that  the  tower 
contained  a  latticed  window,  through  which  the  wind  sighed  forth,  as  an 
JEolian  Harp,  strains  of  fitful  melody,  "  most  musical,  most  melancholy." 


How  sweet,  how  soothing,  and  how  clear, 
Thou  sacred  tower,  thy  Spirit's  tone 
Sounds  on  the  musing  traveller's  ear, 
Listening  and  lone ! 

Earnest  and  deep  that  Spirit  calls,  — 
Speaks  to  the  wearied  soul  of  home ; 
Of  holy  rest  within  these  walls : 
"  Come,  hither  come." 


42 


LINES, 


WRITTEN  BEFORE   AND  AFTER  THE  DEATH   OF  A   DEAR  FRIEND   AND   SISTER. 


SISTER,  on  thy  bed  now  lying,  racked  with  pains, 
and  death  so  near, 

Thou,  through  Christ  thy  Saviour,  trying  to  remove 
each  gloomy  fear ; 

Cruel  death,  with  all  its  terrors,  vibrates  on  thy  lis 
tening  ear ; 

But  thy  hope  is  sure  and  steadfast,  nought  can  move 
or  make  thee  fear. 

In  all  thy  youth  and  beauty,  can  we  see  the  hour 
draw  nigh, 

Which  shall  fill  our  hearts  with  sorrow,  crush  the 
hopes  we've  raised  so  high  ? 


LINES. 


43 


Can  we  look  upon  thy  features,  and  pronounce  thee 

cold  in  death  ? 
Say,  are  we  such  frail  creatures,  there's  no  boasting 

in  our  health  ? 
Oh !  I  love  thee,  love  thee  dearly ;  and  the  thought 

of  parting  now 
Fills  my  mind  with  gloomy  feelings,  casts  a  deep 

shade  o'er  my  brow. 


I  have  stood  and  gazed,  and  wondered  at  destruc 
tion's  fatal  blow, 

When  the  cords  of  life  were  sundered,  and  the  fair 
est  was  laid  low. 

Silently  I  watched  beside  thee,  when  thy  life  was 
ebbing  fast, 

And  thy  breath  was  scarce  denied  thee,  though  each 
gasp  appeared  thy  last ; 

Yes,  that  privilege  was  granted  me,  to  stand  beside 
thy  bed, 

And  to  watch  thy  dying  struggle,  and  to  close  thy 
eyes  when  dead ; 


44 


LINES. 


Then  each  thought  and  feeling  wakened,  when  we 
called  on  thee  in  vain ; 

Then  the  fount  of  tears  was  opened ;  who  from 
weeping  could  refrain  ? 

Now,  kind  Saviour,  we  implore  comfort  and  sus 
taining  grace,  — 

May  thy  spirit  hover  over,  wilt  thou  fill  this  vacant 
place  ? 

Blessings,  comforts,  without  number,  shower  them 
o'er  thy  servants  left : 

Thou  hast  taken  their  dear  treasure,  give  submission 
to  the  bereft. 


45 


THE    AEOLIAN    HARP. 


OH  !  list  to  the  Zephyr-minstrel's  note, 
As  he  breathes  on  the  air-harp's  string ; 

While  in  mystic  dance  the  fairies  float 
In  the  flower-bell's  magic  ring. 

Fancy  paints  the  fay  queen's  lovely  train, 
As  they  flit  through  the  graceful  maze : 

Hush  !  fickle  Zephyr  changes  his  strain, 
And  more  sadly,  yet  sweetly  plays. 

Like  memory's  voice  to  the  mourner's  heart, 
Recalling  the  loved  of  "  lang  syne ; " 

And  while  at  the  thought  the  tear-drops  start, 
Gently  bidding  her  not  repine ; 


46  THE   JEOLIAN   HARP. 

Or  the  converse  of  angels  in  realms  above, 

As  fondly  together  they  roam ; 
Like  the  voice  of  God,  with  endearing  love, 

Recalling  the  wanderer  home. 

Beautiful  harmonist !  powerless  are  words 

Thy  matchless  charms  to  repeat ; 
For  'tis  God's  own  voice  breathing  o'er  thy  chords, 

Awakening  thy  melody  sweet. 


1844. 


47 


MY    GENTLE    FRIEND. 

H.    C.,    JUN. 

LIKE  to  a  beauteous  star, 

Which,  'neath  the  wing  of  night, 

Would  fain  retreat  in  sad  yet  sweet 
Unconsciousness  of  light ; 

Like  to  the  modest  plant, 

Which  shrinks  from  human  touch, 
And  has  no  earthly  confidant, 

Lest  it  confide  too  much  ; 

Like  to  the  poet's  "  gem 

Of  purest  ray  serene," 
Which,  'neath  the  waves,  in  emerald  caves 

Delights  to  dwell  unseen ; 


48  THE    GENTLE   FRIEND. 

Like  to  a  crystal  stream, 

Which  stealeth  softly  by, 
As  a  silver  beam  or  a  starry  gleam 

From  the  silent  summer  sky,  — 

E'en  so  my  friend  supreme 
Moves  in  her  radiant  sphere, 

Silent  as  any  star  or  stream, 
Serene  as  any  seer ; 

Yet  showing,  as  she  shines 
On  earth's  beclouded  ways, 

A  light  more  beauteous  than  the  moon, 
A  life  too  pure  for  praise. 


49 


AN   OLD    STORY. 

M.    M. 

BEFORE  Columbus  ever  thought 
Of  Western  World  with  glory  fraught ; 
Before  the  Northmen  had  been  known 
To  wander  from  their  native  zone ; 
Before  was  raised  a  single  mound, 
The  antiquarians  to  confound ; 
Indeed,  so  very  long  ago, 
The  time  one  can't  exactly  know,  — 
A  giant  Sachem,  good  as  great, 
Reigned  in  and  over  our  Bay  State. 
So  huge  was  he,  his  realm  so  small, 
He  could  not  exercise  at  all, 
Except  by  taking  to  the  sea 
(For  which  he  had  a  ticket  free, 
4 


50  AN    OLD    STORY. 

Granted  by  Neptune,  with  the  seal, 

A  salient  clam,  and  couchant  eel). 

His  pipe  was  many  a  mile  in  length, 

His  lungs  proportionable  in  strength ; 

And  his  rich  moccasins,  —  with  the  pair, 

The  seven-league  boots,  would  not  compare. 

Whene'er  siestas  he  would  take, 

Cape  Cod  must  help  his  couch  to  make ; 

And,  being  lowly,  it  was  meet 

He  should  prefer  it  for  his  feet. 

Well,  one  day,  after  quite  a  doze, 

A  month  or  two  in  length  suppose, 

He  waked,  and,  as  he'd  often  done, 

Strolled  forth  to  see  the  mid-day  sun : 

• 
But  while  unconsciously  he  slept, 

The  sand  within  his  moccasins  crept ; 
At  every  step  some  pain  he'd  feel, 
'Twas  now  the  toe,  now  near  the  heel ; 
At  length  his  Sachemship  grew  cross, 
The  pebbles  to  the  sea  he'd  toss, 


AN    OLD    STORY.  51 

And  with  a  moccasin  in  each  hand, 
He  threw  on  either  side  the  sand ; 
Then,  in  an  instant,  there  appear 
Two  little  isles  the  Sachem  near : 
One  as  the  Vineyard  now  is  known, 
The  other  we  may  call  our  own. 
At  ease,  he  freely  breathed  awhile, 
Which  sent  the  fogs  to  bless  our  isle ; 
And  turning  east,  with  quickened  motion, 
The  chill,  bleak  winds  came  o'er  the  ocean. 

Ill-judging  Sachem !  would  that  you 
Had  never  shaken  here  that  shoe ; 
Or,  having  done  so,  would  again, 
And  join  Nantucket  to  the  main  ! 

Nantucket,  1844. 


52 


THE     HARPEE. 

C.    F.    B. 

OLD  Ocean's  stormy  barrier  passed, 
The  Harper  gained  the  beach  at  last ; 
He  seized  his  harp,  he  leaped  ashore ; 
He  played  his  wild  refrain  once  more, 
The  same  old  sixpence,  tu  and  tu, 
Echoed  the  shores  of  bleak  Coatue ; 

'Twas  tu  I  can't,  and  tu  I  can, 

All  the  way  to  shearing  pen. 

* 

Onward,  but  not  unheeded,  went 
The  Harper  old ;  his  form  was  bent, 
His  doublet  wool,  his  hose  were  tow, 
His  pantaloons  were  cut  so,  so  ; 
The  people  gazed,  the  coofs  admired, 
And  many  stranger  things  transpired ; 


THE   HARPER.  53 

Coppers  from  many  a  hand  were  wrung, 
As,  wading  through  the  sand,  he  sung,  — 
'Tis  tu  I  cant,  and  tu  I  can, 
All  the  way  to  shearing  pen. 

'Twas  just  midway  of  all  the  year, 

When  flowers  and  fleeces  first  appear, 

When  grass  is  grown,  when  sheep  are  sheared ; 

When  lilies,  like  a  lady's  hand, 

Their  scented  petals  first  expand ; 

When  flowery  June  was  in  her  teens, 

The  Harper,  'mid  his  favorite  scenes, 

Played  tu  I  can't,  and  tu  I  can, 
All  the  way  to  shearing  pen. 

The  streets  are  passed,  the  plain  is  reached, 
Whose  uniqueness  was  ne'er  impeached, 
Dearer  to  him  than  Marathon, 
Or  any  plain  beneath  the  sun ; 


54  THE    HARPER. 

Dearer  by  far  than  hymns  or  psalms, 
The  bleatings  of  those  new-shorn  lambs ; 
Dearer  than  all  that  homespun  strain 
The  Harper  wildly  sings  amain,  — 

'Tis  tu  I  can't,  and  tu  I  can, 
All  the  way  to  shearing  pen. 

The  Harper  seats  him  'neath  a  tent, 

Made  of  a  mainsail,  patched  and  rent ; 

The  curious  folk,  of  every  hue, 

Looked  on  as  though  they'd  look  him  through  ; 

He  signifies  his  calm  intent 

To  drink  —  of  the  liquid  element ; 

He  eats  a  large  three-cornered  bun ; 

And  then,  his  slight  refection  done, 

He  takes  his  harp,  and  plays  again 

The  same  mysterious  wild  refrain,  — 
'Tis  tu  I  can't,  and  tu  I  can, 
All  the  way  to  shearing  pen. 


THE    HARPER.  55 

Soon  as  the  Harper  old  appeared, 

A  ring  was  formed,  a  space  was  cleared ; 

Three  ladies,  clad  in  spotless  white, 

Three  gentlemen,  all  dandies  quite, 

Impatient  for  the  dance,  are  seen 

On  the  brown-sward,  some  call  it  green. 

No  light  fantastic  toes  belong 

To  any  of  the  joyous  throng, 

They're  all  prepared  to  reel  it  strong ; 

The  Harper  rosins  well  his  bow,  — 

His  very  catgut 's  in  a  glow, 

"With  tu  I  can't  and  tu  I  can, 
All  the  way  to  shearing  pen. 

The  sheep  are  sheared,  the  reel  is  done, 
The  Harper  back  to  Coofdom  gone ; 
My  lay  is  closed,  you'll  think  it  meet ; 
Pleasures  are  always  short  when  sweet ; 
'Twas  so  when  first  the  world  began, 
'Twill  be  so  when  the  world  is  done. 


56  THE    HARPER. 

Who  was  the  Harper  ?  what  his  strain  ? 

Wait  till  you  hear  him  play  again,  — 
Tis  tu  I  can't,  and  tu  I  can, 
All  the  way  to  shearing  pen. 

1844. 


57 


"OH!    WOULD  SOME  FAIRY  SPELL  WERE 
•'  MINE!" 

L.    C.    S. 

SAY'ST  thou,  if  fairy  spell  were  thine, 
No  child  of  earth  should  e'er  repine  ? 
That  sorrowing  ones,  now  bowed  with  care, 
The  smile  of  happiness  should  wear  ? 

That  poverty  should  reign  no  more, 
But  all  be  blest  with  plenteous  store  ? 
That  discord,  strife,  and  war  should  cease, 
And  future  days  be  passed  in  peace  ? 

That,  to  the  earth's  remotest  bound, 
Oppression  should  no  more  be  found  ? 
Fetters  and  chains  should  parted  be, 
Captor  and  captive  both  be  free  ? 


58         "  on  !   WOULD  SOME  FAIRY  SPELL 

Ah !  vain  thy  wish,  useless  thy  prayer  ; 
And,  e'en  if  granted,  wouldst  thou  dare 
To  seek  to  change  the  Almighty  will, 
Which,  for  our  good,  doth  suffer  ill  ? 

Know  that  affliction  oft  is  fraught 
With  good,  by  pleasure  never  wrought ; 
Then  ask  no  more  for  fairy  spell, 
But  act  the  part  assigned  thee  well. 

Prove  that  thy  wishes  are  sincere, 
Nor  longer  be  inactive  here, 
While  round  thee  there  is  many  a  heart 
Panting  for  joy  thou  canst  impart. 

What  though  thy  worldly  store  is  small, 
Surely,  to-day  thou  need'st  not  all : 
A  portion,  then,  oh  !  freely  give, 
And  bid  one  starving  brother  live. 


WERE   MINE."  59 

And  perfect  freedom  wouldst  thou  gain, 
First  free  thyself  from  error's  chain, 
Whose  fetters  are  more  deadly  far 
Than  iron  bolt  or  prison  bar. 

Thine  aid  to  all  who  need  it  lend ; 
E'en  to  the  guiltiest  be  a  friend ; 
Strive  to  improve  each  coming  hour, 
And  action  shall  increase  thy  power. 

JSTantucket,  1844. 


60 


A    VALENTINE. 

S.    B.    P. 

ALL  hail !  St.  Valentine  !  all  hail ! 

Thou  lover's  patron-saint ! 
The  world  to  me  was  brighter  far, 

When  we  were  first  acquaint. 

But,  faithful  to  thy  worshipper, 

E'en  in  this  winter  hour, 
Long-buried  hopes  thou  hast  revived 

By  thine  own  magic  power. 

I  deemed  that  Cupid  (saucy  elf) 
His  bow  had  quite  unstrung ; 

That  I  was  laid  upon  the  shelf, 
Unnoticed  and  unsung ; 


A  VALENTINE.  61 

That  Art  in  vain  her  garland  hung 

Upon  my  faded  cheek ; 
Time's  traces  on  my  care-worn  brow 

Would  eloquently  speak ; 

That  raven  locks,  whose  changing  hue 

Oft  called  forth  many  a  sigh, 
Had  breathed  their  own  sad  requiem, 

And  whispered,  "  You  must  die." 

But  thanks  to  thee,  thou  potent  one, 

A  fleeting  vision  this, 
Just  think  of  it,  —  a  valentine, 

Directed  not  amiss, 

Borne  on  the  wings  of  love  or  steam, 

'Cross  land  or  rolling  sea, 
Affection's  welcome  messenger, 

Has  kindly  greeted  me. 


62  A    VALENTINE* 

As  beauteous  on  the  unsullied  page, 
The  characters  he  traced, 

As  Eros'  shrine  in  that  pure  heart, 
By  every  virtue  graced, 

His  treasured  image  long  has  been 
A  sunbeam  in  my  way : 

Like  him,  I  too  have  loved  but  once, 
But  that  has  been  for  aye. 

Had  other  offered  me  a  heart,  — 
Though  'twere  a  perfect  gem 

Of  goodness,  purity,  and  truth, 
Worthy  a  diadem,  — 

The  offering  I'd  have  cast  aside, 
And  all  the  world  should  see 

For  him  alone  I'd  live  or  die, 

Or  e'en  a  Hussey  be. 
Nantucket,  1845. 


63 


A   PAIR   OF    SONNETS. 

C.    F.    B. 
SIASCONSET. 

AGAIN  to  thee,  O  surf-encircled  strand, 

Enamored  still  my  thoughts  will  turn ;  once  more, 

Dear  Siasconset,  by  thy  foam-clad  shore, 

Leaving  in  thought  this  tree-encumbered  land, 

How  well  I  love  to  tread  thy  arid  sand, 

And  listen  to  thy  waves'  sonorous  roar, 

Or  watch  old  Pollock's  back,  all  crested  hoar, 

And  the  wild  waters  hissing  fierce  and  grand  ! 

O  pebbly  beach  !  O  Sankoty  !  0  Sea ! 

And  ye  whose  names  are  linked  with  these,  how  oft 

In  mid-day  musings  and  in  midnight  dreams, 

In  visions  bright,  have  ye  been  seen  by  me, 

When  my  free  spirit  has  been  borne  aloft ! 

And  when  I  rhyme,  shall  ye  not  be  my  themes  ? 


64  A   PAIR    OP    SONNETS. 


C  O  A  T  U  E. 

Seated  where  summer  winds  and  bird  and  bee 
Tread  with  their  gentle  feet  on  opening  flowers, 
—  The  fairest  spot  in  this  fair  world  of  ours,  — 
My  thoughts,  deserting  bird  and  flower  and  tree, 
Have  taken  ship,  and  boldly  steered  to  sea, 
Where  never  yet  were  either  meads  or  bowers, 
To  brighten  in  the  sun,  or  summer's  showers,  — 
To  where  the  winds  are  salt,  but  wild  and  free  : 
There,  by  my  fancy's  aid,  I  step  once  more, 
With  naked  limbs,  all  dripping  wet  with  brine, 
And  joyous  leap,  Coatue,  upon  thy  shore, 
As  oft  I  leaped  in  days  a  little  yore. 
O  bleak  Coatue  !  would  that  the  lot  were  mine 
In  thy  clear  waves  to  bathe  my  limbs  once  more ! 

Off  Island,  1840. 


65 


LINES. 


The  following  lines,  addressed  to  a  young  lady  who  was  an  invalid  at 
the  tune,  were  found  attached  to  a  bottle  of  Madeira  wine,  at  the  door  of 
her  dwelling. 


M.    M. 


I  COME,  my  lady  fair,  from  yon  far-distant  isle, 
Whose  hills  are  ever  green,  whose  soft  skies  ever 

smile ; 
Where  winter's  chill  and  summer's  heat  ne'er  blast 

the  fertile  plains, 

But  one  unvaried  spring  in  cloudless  beauty  reigns ; 
Where  gentle  zephyrs  'mong  the  tops  of  lofty  cedars 

play, 
While  round  their  trunks  the  sweet  wild  flowers 

are  wreathed  in  bright  array ; 
5 


66  LINES    TO    A   YOUNG   LADY. 

Where  birds  in  orange  groves  their  grateful  voices 

raise 
To  God,  the  source  of  good,  in  endless  songs  of 

praise ; 
Where  vineyards,  crowning  hill  and  dale,  valley  and 

fertile  field, 
Their  tribute  to  unthankful  man  in  rich  profusion 

yield.  • 
I  would  that  thou,  on  fairy  wings,  might  fly  to  that 

sweet  spot, 
Where,  all  earth's  turmoil  far  removed,  all  worldly 

cares  forgot, 
Thou  might,  in  wandering   through  that  vale,  in 

roaming  o'er  the  plain, 
Thy  wasted  strength  in  peace  renew,  thy  wonted 

health  regain. 

But  since  for  thee  it  is  ordained  another  lot  to  bear, 
To  struggle  on  from  Cross  to  Crown,  through  daily 
toil  and  care, 


LINES    TO    A   YOUNG  LADY.  67 

I've  left  that  dear,  sweet  island-home,  on  grateful 

mission  bent, 
To  visit  thee,  to  give  thee  strength  till  life's  last 

drop  is  spent. 
Then  take  me,  lady,  spurn  me  not;  this  blessing 

grant  to  me, 
To  mingle  yet  my  life  with  thine,  and  e'en  be  one 

with  thee. 

Nantucket,  1846. 


68 


THOU   ART   NOT   FORGOTTEN. 


A.    M. 


FORGOTTEN  !  dear  girl,  I  would  sooner  forget 
The  green  hills  of  my  own  native  shore, 

The  scenes  of  my  childhood,  the  tree  where  we  sat, 
That  stood  by  the  old  cottage  door. 

Forgotten  !  O  Sherburne,  the  eternal  waves, 
That  break  on  thy  storm-beaten  shore, 

Shall  be  hushed,  and  the  rocks  and  the  cliffs  and 

the  caves 
Shall  cease  to  re-echo  the  roar ; 

And  the  fisherman's  bark  no  longer  shall  glide 

So  close  to  the  dangerous  surf ; 
And  the  sun,  as  it  sinks  in  the  evening  tide, 

Shall  take  its  farewell  of  the  earth  ; 


THOU  ART   NOT   FORGOTTEN.  69 

And  the  lips  on  which  sweet  music  hung 

In  life's  gay,  sunny  morn, 
The  eyes  that  smiled,  the  voice  that  sung, 

The  vivid  picture  drawn 

On  memory's  first  and  brightest  page, 

And  all  that  charms  the  spot, 
Shall  cease  to  be,  nor  thought  engage,  — 

Ere  thou  shalt  be  forgot. 

New  York,  1846. 


70 


THE  FIRST  OF  MAY. 

ADDRESSED      TO      A      LITTLE      GIRL. 
C.    H.    G. 

ETJDE  March  has  blown  his  chilly  blast, 
And  milder  April's  rains  are  past, 
Conspiring  both  to  change  the  scene 
From  sober  brown  to  living  green ; 
While  Earth  seems  decked  in  bright  array, 
To  usher  in  the  First  of  May. 

'Twas  on  this  day,  in  olden  time, 

The  church-bells  all  rung  merry  chime, 

And  lads  and  lasses  danced  and  sung, 

As  the  tall  pole  with  wreaths  they  hung ; 

Or,  gathering  round  with  garlands  gay, 

They  chose  and  crowned  their  Queen  of  May. 


THE   FIRST    OF   MAT.  71 

* 

Those  times  are  o'er,  —  no  beauteous  Queen 

Rules  for  a  day  the  village  green ; 

But  still,  when  comes  the  bright  May  morn, 

The  lads  and  lasses  rise  at  dawn, 

And  to  the  meadows  take  their  way, 

To  cull  the  fragrant  flowers  of  May. 

Long  be  it  kept,  —  "  this  day  of  flowers," 
And  its  return  bring  happy  hours ; 
Hours  to  be  spent  in  harmless  glee, 
Hours  from  all  care  and  trouble  free  : 
To  Mary  Anna  may  the  day 
Oft  prove  a  happy  First  of  May ! 


72 


AUTUMN    THOUGHTS. 


E.    C.   D. 


THE  autumn  winds  are  sighing, 
And  the  leaves  are  falling  fast ; 

And  all  nature  now  seems  dying, 
From  the  cold  and  wintry  blast. 

Soon  will  spring  return,  delighting 
With  its  calm  and  sunny  hours ; 

Hopeful,  joyful  thoughts  exciting, 
'Mid  the  birds  and  pleasant  flowers. 

So  the  heart,  oppressed  with  sadness 
And  the  wintry  blast  of  gloom, 

In  the  spring  of  heavenly  gladness, 
Turns  to  its  joyful  home. 


AUTUMN   THOUGHTS.  73 

And  the  world-freed  soul  rejoices 

In  that  home  of  heavenly  rest, 
Mingling  with  the  happy  voices, 

Singing  ever  with  the  blest. 


Nantucket,  1849. 


74 


TELL  ME,  WHERE  DO  THE  FAIRIES  DWELL? 


Is  yon  bright  cloud,  with  its  edges  of  gold, 
The  home  of  those  beings  of  whom  we  are  told 
So  many  sweet  tales  and  legends  of  old  ? 

Not  in  the  clouds  do  the  fairies  dwell. 

Do  they  not  love  by  the  sea  to  roam, 
And  in  pearly  shells,  wet  with  ocean's  foam, 
Hold  they  their  revels,  and  have  their  home  ? 
Not  by  the  sea  do  the  fairies  dwell. 

Perhaps  'mong  the  boughs  of  the  greenwood  trees, 
In  grottoes  formed  by  the  sheltering  leaves, 
And  sung  to  sleep  by  the  evening  breeze  ? 

Not  in  the  trees  do  the  fairies  dwell. 


WHEKE   THE   FAIRIES   DWELL.  75 

The  fairies'  home  is  the  heath-flowers'  bell, 

Inmates  they  of  each  little  pink  cell : 

Then  the  heath  thou  must  love,  and  love  it  well. 

Bridgewater,  1849. 


76 


A  DECEMBER   EVENING. 


THE  sun  went  down  an  hour  ago, 
And  the  clouds  he  tinged  with  red 

Are  pale  beneath  the  pale  cold  moon, 
As  the  cheeks  of  the  early  dead. 

There  is  no  sound  in  the  upper  air, 

No  sound  on  land  or  sea : 
I  fear  that  life  and  death  are  one, 

All  things  so  silent  be. 

The  islands,  cold  and  white  and  still, 
On  the  still  black  bay  they  lie  ; 

They  seem  like  the  shadows  of  the  clouds, 
On  the  shadow  of  the  sky. 


A   DECEMBER    EVENING.  77 

The  sycamore's  warm  heart  is  chilled  ; 

In  icy  mail  he  stands ; 
He  holds  aloft  a  glittering  spear 

In  each  of  his  hundred  hands. 

High  court  he  held  in  summer's  prime, 

Beneath  his  branches  wide  ; 
Blithe  children  gathered  there  at  morn, 

And  lovers  at  eventide. 

No  more  with  green  and  gold  he  decks 

His  hall  for  lover  and  maid, 
But  grimly  now  upon  the  snow 

He  flings  a  skeleton  shade. 

My  heart  is  chilled,  and  the  rosy  hopes 
That  gladdened  my  summer  hours 

Have  drooped  before  the  winter's  cold, 
And  perished  with  the  flowers. 


78  A   DECEMBER   EVENING. 

Sadly  I  muse  upon  the  past,  — 

Upon  days  without  virtues  fled ; 
And  sins  forgot,  from  my  memory  rise, 

As  from  their  graves  the  dead. 

But  hark  !  how  clear  from  the  old  church  tower 
Comes  the  music  of  midnight  chimes  ! 

Oh !  winter's  cold  can  weave  no  spell, 
But  is  broke  by  those  silver  rhymes. 

Their  sound  hath  waked  the  warm  south  wind, 

That  slept  so  still  before  ; 
The  sea  hath  heard,  and  her  tiny  waves 

Are  whispering  to  the  shore. 

Silence  and  cold  have  left  their  throne, 
They  are  banished  their  lifeless  realm ; 

The  giant-tree  hath  flung  to  the  ground 
His  icy  mail  and  helm ; 


A   DECEMBER   EVENING.  79 

And  the  cold,  white  clouds  beneath  the  moon, 
They're  the  ivory  gates  of  Heaven  ; 

They  roll  aside,  and  parted  souls 
Pass  through,  their  sins  forgiven. 

Thus  God  sends  cheer  from  the  outer  world, 

Sends  courage  back  to  my  soul ; 
And  in  music  the  hopes  of  my  gladdest  hours 

Through  its  lighted  chambers  roll. 


80 


QUEBEC. 


I  STOOD  upon  those  heights,  where  Nature,  Art, 

And  memories  of  the  past,  all  touch  the  heart : 

A  river,  oh,  how  fair  !  lay  far  below, 

And  storied  cape  and  isle,  kissed  by  its  flow, 

Brought  to  the  mind  the  thought  of  that  bold  deed 

That  made  the  spot  immortal.     Its  rich  meed 

The  dazzling  city,  sat  in  splendor  meet, 

Guarding  the  lovely  valleys  at  her  feet, 

And  England's  flag  waved  o'er  with  proudest  grace; 

But  these  made  not  the  chief  charm  of  the  place. 

A  column,  bearing  helm  and  sword,  stood  near, 

Telling,  with  simple  grandeur,  "  Wolfe  died  here 

Victorious  !  "     Victorious  !  I  stayed 

Long  musing  on  that  record  proud,  and  prayed, 

In  the  still  language  of  my  lifted  heart, 

That,  when  my  Father  called  on  me  to  part 


QUEBEC.  81 

With  those  I  loved,  giving  them,  one  by  one, 

Back  to  his  arms,  when  this  life's  work  was  done, 

I  might,  recalling  each  beloved  name 

To  those  who  still  were  toiling,  glad  proclaim, 

Telling  of  conflicts  stern  and  glorious, 

He  fought  with  SIN,  and  died  victorious  ! 

June,  1851. 


82 


NATURE. 


THOUGHTS    SUGGESTED    IN    THE    "WOODS    AT    NOON. 


OH,  ever-changing  Nature  !  how  dost  thou 
Renew  thy  beauty  every  summer-time  ! 

Beneath  Death's  mouldering  hand  mankind  must 

bow, 
But  each  successive  year  brings  back  thy  prime, 

Thy  wealth  of  foliage,  thy  birds  and  bees 

Filling  the  air  with  richest  harmonies. 

Oh,  with  what  glowing  eloquence  dost  thou 
Impart  thy  lessons  to  the  human  soul ! 

Before  thy  altar,  Nature,  let  me  bow, 
And  yield  my  spirit  to  thy  soft  control. 

Thy  influence  subduing  all,  I  feel, 

E'en  as  a  spell,  o'er  my  rapt  senses  steal. 


NATURE.  83 

'Tis  now  the  still  and  hallowed  hour  of  noon, 
Not  e'en  a  sound  disturbs  the  deep  serene ; 

Hushed  is  the  brook's  subdued,  low  undertone, 
And  checkered  sunshine  slants  the  rocks  between. 

Throughout  the  woods  a  noontide  slumber  reigns, 

As  hushed  to  list  to  sweet  angelic  strains. 


With  Nature  thus  alone,  the  soul  is  full 

Of  hallowed  thoughts,  and  aspirations  high,  - 

Of  deep  responses  to  the  beautiful, 
And  glowing  prospects  of  futurity, 

Which  seem  prefigured  in  each  shifting  gleam 

Of  sunshine  upon  rock  and  hill  and  stream. 

O  blessed  Nature  !  thou  a  gospel  art 
To  every  soul  who  readeth  thee  aright : 

How  does  thy  beauty  purify  the  heart, 
And  give  it  glimpses  of  the  land  of  light, 

Where  Death  can  never  come,  nor  cold  decay, 

To  stay  the  spirit's  ever-upward  way ; 


84  NATURE. 

Where  time  is  not,  and  where,  from  height  to  height, 
With  no  obstruction,  such  as  we  feel  here, 

The  soul  progresses  to  the  Infinite, 

On  the  strong  wing  of  faith,  unchecked  by  fear  ; 

And  dwells,  from  sin  and  suffering  made  free, 

Near  to  the  Fount  of  Truth,  eternally ! 

Osterville,  1851. 


85 


THE    MANIAC. 


How  oft  they  suffer  whose  whole  life  reflects  the 

will  of  Heaven ! 
How  hard  they  seek  forgiveness  who  have  least  to 

be  forgiven ! 

Lingers  the  sinless  child  of  love  in  agonizing  prayer ; 
Her  hopes  are  lost,  —  her  gaze  is  wild,  —  she  finds 

no  Father  there. 

Hinda's  carol 's  heard  no  longer  at  the  purpling  of 
the  morn, 

And  the  lark  that  used  to  greet  her,  calls  till  plain 
tive  grows  his  song ; 

And  the  flowers  droop  and  die,  by  the  path  she 
fondly  trod ; 

Alas !  poor  Hinda  lost  herself  in  seeking  for  her  God. 
Nantucket,  1852. 


86 


LILLIBEL. 


E.   S. 


'TWAS  golden  summer  in  my  heart,  glad  summer 

all  around, 
When  with  a  wreath   of  lily-bells   my  Lillibel   I 

crowned, 
And  called  her  Queen  of  all  my  hopes,  and  swore 

myself  her  Knight, 
And  boldly  vowed  for  Lillibel  the  fiercest  foe  to 

fight,— 

For  Lillibel,  dear  Lillibel ! 


Oh !  all  the  flowers  seemed  lily-bells  in  those  glad, 

golden  days, 
And  all  the  brooks  sang  Lillibel  along  their  winding 

ways; 


LILLIBEL.  87 

Laden  with  dreams  of  Lillibel,  the  lulling  breezes 

came, 

The  silver  echoes  only  rang  the  mellow-music  name 
Of  Lillibel,  sweet  Lillibel ! 


Cold  winter  now  is  in  the  sky,  chill  winter  in  my 

heart ; 
I  wander  by  the  silent  brook,  to  muse  and  mourn 

apart ; 
The  wild  winds,  whistling  through  the  trees,  in  weird 

whispers  tell 

The  story  of  the  lily-bells  and  of  my  Lillibel,  — 
My  Lillibell,  lost  Lillibel ! 


That  King  whose  lance  no  knight  may  break,  whose 

love  no  Queen  divide, 
Black-plumed  upon  his  milk-white  steed,  bore  off 

my  darling  bride ; 


88  LILLIBEL. 

He  gathered  all  the  lily-bells  to  bind  around  her 

brow  : 
I  feel  there  are  no  flowers  for  me  in  all  the  wide 

world  now,  — 

No  lily-bells,  no  Lillibel ! 

Nantucket,  1852. 


89 


SEAWEED. 


E.   8. 


DARLINGS  of  old  Ocean ! 

On  Ms  ample  breast, 
Rocked  with  gentle  motion, 

Trustingly  ye  rest, 

Or  play  with  the  white  locks  that  stream  beneath 
his  crest. 

Buoyant  little  swimmers ! 

Reared  in  coral  caves, 
Where  no  sunshine  glimmers, 

But  in  coolest  waves, 
Her  fairy  flitting  form  the  merry  mermaid  laves. 


90  SEAWEED. 

Pretty  petted  minions 

Of  the  sea-nymphs  fair  ! 
On  wave-wafted  pinions, 

Messages  ye  bear 

That  thrill  the  merman's  heart  with  joy  or  fierce 
despair. 

Fragile  votive  flowers ! 

From  dense  bowers  marine, 
When  the  tempest  lowers, 

Plucked  by  hands  unseen, 

And  strewn,  in  vain,  the  Storm-god  to  appease,  I 
ween. 


What  a  world  of  fancies 

Your  fair  forms  suggest ! 
Dreamiest  romances 

Ye  with  truth  invest, 
And  Ocean's  myths  and  fables  live  in  you  expressed. 


SEAWEED.  91 

Travellers,  Heaven-directed 

To  the  destined  strand  ! 
Pilgrims,  Heaven-protected 

To  your  Holy  Land  ! 
Ye  teach  me  firmer  faith  in  the  All-guiding  Hand. 

Treasures  of  such  beauty 

Ye  to  me  have  brought, 
Lessons  of  such  duty 

Ye  to  me  have  taught, 
That  my  faint  heart  despairs  to  praise  ye  as  I  ought. 

Nantucket,  1852. 


92 


EDUCATION. 


Tis  Education  forms  the  mind  of  youth  ; 

Conducts  the  footsteps  in  the  paths  of  truth ; 

Expands  the  soul,  and  purifies  the  heart ; 

Gives  the  young  scholar  skill  to  act  a  part ; 

Brings  forth  to  light  each  latent  talent  given, 

And  makes  of  human  life  a  blissful  Eden. 

Like  the  fixed  stars  from  their  far  distant  height, 

Learning  reflects  a  pure  and  heavenly  light, 

By  which  the  everlasting  ages  shine, 

And  bless  its  holy  rays  with  joy  divine. 

Ah  !  would  to  Heaven  the  exalted  gift  were  mine 

To  lay,  fair  Science,  on  thy  sacred  shrine 

A  worthy  offering,  fitted  to  inspire 

The  ardent  breast  with  an  increased  desire 


EDUCATION.  9£ 

To  sound  thy  mysteries,  improve  the  mind, 
And  strive  to  elevate  and  bless  mankind ! 
From  age  to  age  what  living  lights  have  shed 
The  rays  of  genius  on  the  student's  head ! 
With  immortality  their  fame  is  crowned, 
And  known  their  names  to  earth's  remotest  bound. 
Great  Homer  rose,  the  wonder  of  his  day, 
And  sung,  in  strains  sublime,  his  touching  lay : 
The  Siege  of  Troy,  long  wrapt  in  sombre  night, 
By  his  gigantic  power  was  brought  to  light. 
And  shall  I  dare,  and  is  the  privilege  mine, 
To  name  thee,  Shakspeare,  with  thy  gifts  divine  ? 
With  steady  light  thy  powerful  genius  shone, 
Reflecting  lustre  round  the  Tudor's  throne  ; 
And  future  ages,  with  admiring  gaze, 
Applaud  thy  works  with  undissembled  praise. 
Sage  Bacon's  fame  o'er  half  the  world  presides  ; 
Spirit  from  matter  the  great  Locke  divides  ; 
And  Newton,  with  his  penetrating  mind, 
Surveys  the  heavens,  new  wonders  there  to  find,  — 


94  EDUCATION. 

Discovers  worlds  to  science  then  unknown, 
And  founds  a  glorious  system,  all  his  own. 
In  our  free  land  a  Franklin's  voice  was  heard, 
And  listening  senates  bowed  before  his  word ; 
Each  star,  that  studs  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 
Became  familiar  to  his  practised  eye  ; 
Like  Jove,  he  held  the  thunder  in  his  hand, 
And  peal  on  peal  rolled  o'er  the  astonished  land, 
"When  he  drew  forth  the  lightning's  vivid  flame, 
And  hence  achieved  a  never-dying  fame. 
May  those  who  follow  his  example  now, 
Wear  the  green  laurel  that  surrounds  his  brow ; 
And,  in  the  cycles  of  a  prosperous  fate, 
Franklins  spring  forth  from  every  free-born  State ! 

Nantucket,  1852. 


95 


THE     FISHERMAN. 


IT  was  an  ancient  fisherman 

That  launched  his  boat  away, 
And  hoisted  up  his  sails,  before 

The  dawning  of  the  day : 
The  wind  was  fair,  the  water  smooth, 

He  let  his  boat  go  free, 
And  sat  upon  the  after-thwart, 

As  he  stood  out  to  sea. 


Far  out  of  sight  of  land  he'd  sailed, 
And  reached  his  fishing-ground, 

When  sullen  clouds  spread  o'er  the  deep, 
And  circled  him  around. 


96  THE   FISHERMAN. 

The  waves  popped  up  their  night-capt  heads, 

Awaking  from  their  doze, 
And,  just  to  welcome  him  to  sea, 

The  wind  politely  rose. 


The  wind  came  up,  the  rain  came  down, 

The  rain  came  down  in  floods, 
As  if  celestial  laundresses 

Were  throwing  out  their  suds  : 
An  infant  deluge  seemed  let  loose, 

To  have  a  bit  of  fun, 
To  wash  old  Nature's  face,  and  take 

The  shine  out  of  the  sun. 


Up  jumped  the  fisherman,  and  tried 

In  vain  to  lower  his  sail ; 
Great  guns  the  wind  was  blowing,  —  what 

Could  his  small  arms  avail  ? 


98  THE    FISHERMAN. 

"  A  loaf  of  bread  would  cheer  my  heart, 

That  now  in  grief  has  sunk  ; 
I  wish  I  was  a  Chinaman, 
And  sailing  in  a  junk. 


«  Ah,  home,  sweet  home  !    The  little  brats 

That  look  so  like  myself ! 
And  ah !  that  dear  old  jug,  I  seem 

To  see  it  on  the  shelf. 
The  jig  is  up"!     I  never  more 

Shall  tread  Nantucket  sand ; 
I'm  going  to ,  I  will  not  swear, 

I'll  say  Tan  Demon's  Land." 


Farewell,  thou  ancient  fisherman, 

I  leave  thee  to  thy  fate  ; 
Men  are  but  worms,  and  thou  hast  been 

To  me  a  sort  of  bait. 


THE    FISHERMAN.  99 


I  will  not  make  a  jest  of  thee, 
I  will  not  laugh  nor  scoff; 

I  leave  thee  on  thy  sinking  boat, 
I  will  not  take  thee  off. 


1852. 


100 


HYMN  OF   THE  WASHER-WOMAN. 


AT  my  washing-tub  I'm  standing, 
And  my  labor  scarce  begun  ; 

Quiet  watch  the  rising  bubbles, 
Joyous,  smiling,  every  one. 

See  that  one  so  tiny,  playing, 
Merry,  brighter  than  the  rest ; 

Whispering,  in  its  gentle  music, 
Comfort  to  the  fainting  breast. 

Now  in  chorus  all  are  joining, 
Green,  and  red,  and  azure  blue : 

Who  in  beauty  clothed  the  rainbow, 
To  the  bubbles  gave  their  hue. 


HYMN    OF    THE    WASHER-WOMAN.  101 

Father  !  though  my  soul  be  weary, 
And  thy  servant's  strength  nigh  gone, 

Still  through  these  thy  spirit  shining 
Bears  me  upward,  cheers  me  on. 

New  Bedford,  1852. 


102 


AFTER   THE   CROSS,  THE   CROWN. 


Thoughts  suggested  by  seeing  a  beautiful  picture,  —  Clouds  over  the 
earth,  black  underneath,  light  above :  above  the  clouds,  the  Cross ;  and 
above  the  Cross,  the  Crown. 

I 


ON  our  tempestuous  sea, 
Storm-cloud  above,  storm-wave  beneath, 

All  hail  the  Cross  ! 
Death's  night 's  around  ; 
God's  blood  is  found  ; 
But  on  it  Love's  eternal  wreath,  — 
The  gain  o'er  loss. 

On  our  triumphant  way, 
Glory  around,  glory  on  high,  — 
All  hail  the  Crown  ! 


AFTER   THE    CROSS,    THE    CROWN.  103 

Life's  dayspring  's  near, 
Love's  soul  is  here, 
Love's  smile  o'er  all  the  clouded  sky, 
Behind  the  frown. 

1852. 


104 


NOTCHES. 


T.    B. 


These  notches  on  a  stick,  cut  from  the  Tree  of  Thought,  were  sug 
gested  by  reading  "  Glances  at  the  British  Poets  "  by  Mrs.  M.  S.  Coffin, 
to  whom  they  are  respectfully  inscribed. 


A  GEM  was  born  in  a  rocky  bed, 

Where  in  silence  and  darkness  it  slept, 
While  Time,  with  his  footsteps  of  ages  passed  on, 
And  the  glory  of  nations  arose  and  was  gone, 
Their  names  to  oblivion  swept. 

But  the  earthquake  came,  and  rent  the  rock, 
When  the  Diamond  was  born  to  the  light ; 
Thence  in  magical  beauty  ever  it  glows, 
And  the  splendor  of  purity  modestly  shows, 
A  jewel  that  ever  is  bright. 


NOTCHES.  105 

Thus  the  soul  of  love,  and  intellect's  gleam, 

May  sleep  in  the  shade  for  a  while ; 
Yet  love  by  its  power,  and  mind  by  its  might, 
Will  banish  the  shadows  that  darken  their  light, 

Then  in  triumph  for  ever  will  smile. 

Nantucket,  1852. 


106 


GOD'S    PEESENCE. 


SAY,  doth  the  Infinite  e'er  bend 

From  his  eternal  throne  ? 
And  is  his  presence  here  below 

By  erring  mortals  known  ? 

The  stars  of  midnight,  as  they  blaze, 
Earth's  flowerets,  as  they  bloom, 

Speak  of  God's  presence,  while  they  teach 
There  is  a  life  to  come. 

All  nature  smiles  in  token  bright 

Of  some  good  spirit  nigh, 
As  ocean-waves  are  beautiful, 

Reflecting  azure  sky. 


GOD'S  PRESENCE.  107 

The  infant's  smile  of  innocence, 

The  maiden's  wish  for  love, 
Bespeak  the  presence  in  our  midst 

Of  Him  who  reigns  above. 

Where  purity  and  love  are  seen, 

His  presence  must  be  owned, 
Who  e'er  as  Holiness  itself 

And  perfect  Love  is  known. 

Oh  !  seek  his  presence  in  thy  heart, 

My  fellow-traveller  dear, 
If  thou  wouldst  ever  have  a  light 

Thine  earthly  path  to  cheer. 

Infinity  to  finite  stoops, 

And  dwells  in  human  breast, 
Wherever  passion's  wrathful  waves 

By  grace  are  hushed  to  rest. 
Nan  tucket,  1852. 


108 


WEBSTER. 

E.    S. 

A  NATION  weeps  !  her  brightest  son  has  gone 

Back  to  the  spirit-land,  his  native  air, 

To  beam  again  in  his  celestial  home, 

And  blend  his  brilliance  with  his  kindred  there. 

That  face  which  bore  strong  impress  of  his  worth  ; 
That  stately  form  ;  those  orbs,  expressive,  deep,  — 
Have  gone  to  mingle  with  their  mother  earth, 
Wrapt  in  the  mystery  of  death's  long  sleep. 

Those  bursts  of  eloquence  no  more  shall  peal, 
Guided  by  Truth,  and  Genius'  sacred  fire ; 
Nor  hearts  again  those  thunder-tones  shall  thrill, 
Nor  listening  thousands  e'er  again  inspire. 


WEBSTER.  109 

Where  shall  we  seek  such  intellectual  power  ? 
Or  where  such  mental  vigor  shall  we  find  ? 
Or,  in  our  country's  dark,  disastrous  hour, 
Call  one  to  aid  us  with  his  matchless  mind  ? 

As  Patriot,  Statesman,  Orator,  and  Sage, 
The  world  beheld  him  with  admiring  eye  ; 
His  name  stands  forth  enrolled  on  History's  page, 
With  Fame's  bright  lustre  that  shall  never  die. 

Whether  he  looked  upon  the  calm  blue  sea, 
Or  surging  billows  lashed  the  shore  he  trod, 
Or  smiling  nature,  or  the  leafless  tree, 
He  saw  in  each  alike  the  hand  of  God. 

As  the  last  struggling  scene  of  life  drew  near, 
Patient  and  meek  the  dying  Statesman  prayed ; 
Nor  death  nor  conflict,  nor  one  boding  fear, 
Cast  on  his  faith  a  solitary  shade. 


110  WEBSTER. 

Before  the  silver  cord  was  rent  in  twain, 

As  if  some  type  of  future  life  to  give, 

He  turned  his  spirit  back  to  earth  again, 

And  loud  exclaimed,  though  dying,  "  Still  I  live." 

Yes,  he  does  live  !  —  lives  in  Affection's  shrine, 
Whose  tears  of  sorrow  shall  bedew  his  grave, 
Who  round  his  memory  brightest  laurels  twine, 
Nor  doubt  but  "  God  has  taken  what  he  gave." 

Though  shades  of  evening  gathered  o'er  his  head, 
His  setting  sun  has  wrapped  all  hearts  in  gloom ; 
But  a  bright  halo  round  his  sky  is  spread, 
Whose  radiant  light  the  world  shall  long  illume. 

While  o'er  his  silent  urn  the  tear-drop  flows, 
Soft  be  his  slumber  in  his  narrow  bed  ; 
Call  not  his  spirit  from  its  sweet  repose  ; 
Peace  to  the  ashes  of  the  Mighty  Dead  ! 
Nantucket,  1852. 


Ill 


SPEAK  GENTLY. 


M.   S. 


SPEAK  gently  to  thy  parents  dear, 
Harsh  words  are  not  respectful ; 

How  much  they  love  and  do  for  thee, 
Be  not  of  them  neglectful. 

Speak  gently  to  the  wayward  child, 

Be  gentle  in  thy  chiding ; 
Then  let  thy  words  be  firm  but  mild, 

In  patience  e'er  abiding. 

Speak  gently  to  the  aged  sire, 
Let  kind  words  be  extended ; 

He's  travelled  long  o'er  life's  hard  road 
Old  age  should  be  befriended. 


112  SPEAK    GENTLY. 

Speak  gently  to  the  erring  youth, 
If  thou  wouldst  eV,r  reclaim  him  ; 

But  do  not  keep  from  Mm  the  truth, 
Nor  do  thou  harshly  blame  him. 

% 

Speak  gently  to  the  needy  poor, 
Who  of  thee  alms  oft  asketh : 

Thou  too  may  need  ;  then  freely  give, 
Though  oft  thy  purse  it  taxetla. 

Speak  gently  to  the  feeble  ones, 
For  much  they  have  to  suffer  : 

Kind  words  do  sometimes  balsam  prove 
Such  do  thou  freely  offer. 

Speak  gently  always  to  thy  friend, 

And  also  to  the  stranger ; 
For  gentle  words  will  ne'er  offend, 

Nor  will  thy  peace  endanger. 


SPEAK    GENTLY.  113 

Speak  gently,  then,  whene'er  thou  speak'st ; 

Harsh  words  do  not  sound  loving : 
Speak  gently,  then,  oh !  gently  speak  ; 

A  Christian  'tis  becoming. 

Nantucket,  1852. 


114 


LINES  PRESENTED  TO  E R- 


ON  HER  MARRIAGE  MORNING,  WITH  A  COLLECTION  OF  GARDEN  FLOWERS. 


THESE  beautiful  emblems  of  Nature  and  God, 
So  expressive  of  love  by  their  essence  divine,  — 
From  the  hand  which  first  guarded  the  embryo  bud, 
Please  accept,  dearest  girl,  as  an  offering  for  thine. 


They  were  raised  in  free  soil,  breathed  an  air  which 

was  free, 
And  have  whispered  their  love-notes  in  soft  zephyrs 

bland : 

May  the  impress  so  pure  be  transplaced  upon  thee, 
And  on  him  who  this  evening  beside  thee  shall 

stand ! 


LINES.  115 

They  are  lovely  in  autumn,  'mid  nature's  rude  strife ; 
Still  in  triumph  they  blossom,  and  sweetly  they 

blend : 
May  the  symbol  be  true,  and  your  journey  through 

life 
Be  blessed  in  its  noontide,  and  crowned  in  its  end ! 

May  the  spirit  of  him  who  is  far  o'er  the  sea 
Encircle  each  blossom,  and  brighten  each  gem, 
That  the  vow  ye  shall  make  responded  shall  be, 
And  claim  from  thy  Father  the  echo,  Amen. 

Nantucket,  1852. 


116 


MUSINGS. 


As  musing  by  the  fire  I  sat, 

At  the  quiet  midnight  hour, 
No  sound  disturbed  my  reverie, 

My  books  had  lost  their  power  ; 
The  old  clock,  standing  in  the  hall, 

Ticked  out,  in  measured  beat, 
The  fleeting  moments,  as  they  passed, 

Of  time's  relentless  feet. 


The  memories  of  other  days 
Came  thronging  to  my  sight, 

And  many  an  absent  face  appeared, 
In  the  vision  of  the  night. 


MUSINGS.  117 

The  shadows  of  the  future  threw 

Their  forms  across  the  path  ; 
And  mingled,  in  my  dreamy  thoughts, 

The  future  and  the  past. 


I  travelled  o'er  my  boyhood's  days, 

Recalled  its  hours  of  joy, 
Ere  care  and  sorrow  came  along, 

And  mixed  their  dark  alloy ; 
When  all  around  was  fair  and  bright, 

One  happy  summer  day,  — 
The  glorious  sun  without  a  cloud 

To  hide  its  heavenly  ray. 


I  thought  on  Siasconset's  bank  ; 

I  stood  there  once  again  ; 
And  gazed,  as  oft  I'd  done  before, 

Upon  the  deep  blue  main. 


118  MUSINGS. 

The  fishing-boats  were  lying  near, 

As  waiting  for  the  tide  ; 
With  oars  and  sails  all  nicely  stowed, 

Marks  of  the  fisher's  pride. 


I  stood  on  Siasconset's  hill, 

Just  at  the  set  of  sun, 
And  looked  abroad  o'er  that  fair  plain, 

And  down  by  Philip's  run : 
The  kine  were  winding  o'er  the  lea, 

And,  far  as  eye  could  reach, 
The  sheep  were  feeding  quietly, 

From  Plainfield  to  Low  Beach. 


The  scene  is  changed ;  in  years  gone  by, 
The  red  man  here  did  tread ; 

And  one  unbroken  forest  waved 
From  'neath  Tom-never's  head, 


MUSINGS.  119 


Far,  far  across  by  Gibbs's  pond, 
Through  Sachacha  and  Squam, 

And  down  by  Quaise,  to  where  now  stands 
Old  Abram's  lone  wigwam. 


Great  Wa-nack-ma-nack  here  did  dwell, 

This  side  of  Ok-a-wah  ; 
A  brave  old  Sachem,  mild  in  peace, 

But  terrible  in  war. 
In  Squam  lived  Sachem  Nickanoose ; 

And  on  Pops-quatchet  hills, 
The  famous  warrior,  Autapscot, 

Where  stand  our  peaceful  mills. 


In  nature's  simple  charity, 
They  stretched  the  open  hand, 

When,  fugitives  from  Christian  hate, 
Our  fathers  sought  this  land. 


120  MUSINGS. 

They  oped  to  them  their  choicest  stores, 
Bestowed  on  them  their  lands, 

Tasted  their  poison  and  disease, 
And  perished  at  their  hands. 


Our  pilgrim-fathers  forth  were  driven 

By  persecution's  rod, 
And  sought  this  isle  among  the  waves, 

Where  they  could  worship  God. 
When  Autumn's  clouds  lowered  in  the  sky, 

Old  Thomas  dared  the  sea, 
With  Edward  nobly  by  his  side, 

They'd  die,  or  they'd  be  free. 


They  were  a  race  of  giant-souls, 
Of  stout  and  stalwart  forms ; 

In  boyhood  rocked  upon  the  waves, 
And  cradled  in  the  storms. 


MUSINGS.  121 


They  bore  our  country's  flag  aloft, 
In  battle  and  in  breeze, 

The  first  to  show  its  rebel  stars 
Within  Old  England's  seas. 


The  frozen  waves  of  Labrador 

Bore  witness  to  their  toil, 
And  Afric's  equinoctial  heat 

But  served  to  try  their  oil. 
"  No  seas  their  fisheries  did  not  vex," 

No  bay,  nor  river's  mouth ; 
The  North  Star  shone  above  their  way, 

And  the  Serpent  of  the  South. 


By  toil  and  industry  they  carved 

A  name  on  history's  page, 
Which  shines  as  bright  as  aught  appears 

Within  the  present  age. 


122  MUSINGS. 

No  brother's  blood  pollutes  their  hands, 
No  murder  's  on  their  souls  ; 

Their  battle-field  was  on  the  deep, 
Its  monsters  were  their  foes. 


Thus  fancy  called  up  to  my  mind 

The  scenes  of  other  days  ; 
And  with  its  busy  fingers  ran 

O'er  time's  eventful  ways. 
And  pictures  of  the  past  appeared 

In  shadow  and  in  shade, 
And  hopes  of  future  greatness  reared, 

And  joys  that  will  not  fade. 


I  will  not  paint  the  future  scene 
That  passed  before  my  sight, 

In  hazy  indistinctness  seen 
In  the  visions  of  the  night ; 


MUSINGS.  123 

Which,  like  the  huge  misshapen  forms 

On  mountain-tops  appear, 
As  pictured  on  the  sky  afar, 

Make  shadows  that  we  fear. 


But  let  our  hope  be  ever  on, 

In  sunshine  and  in  shade  ; 
'Twas  God  that  led  our  fathers  here, 

His  mercies  will  not  fade. 
And  let  all  put  their  trust  in  him, 

Strive  early  and  work  late, 
And  whate'er  sky  above  us  bends, 

Bear  a  heart  for  any  fate. 

Nantucket,  1852. 


124 


TO    M  Y    W  I  F  E. 

c.  c.  c. 

MY  wife  !  the  tide  is  running  fast 

That  bears  us  to  the  shore, 
And  soon  our  anchor  will  be  cast 

Where  billows  roll  no  more. 

Why  should  we  wish  always  to  stay 

Upon  youth's  flowery  land  ? 
Oh !  rather  let  us  cross  the  bay, 

And  seek  a  better  strand. 

We  do  not  gather  springing  flowers, 

As  in  our  earlier  years, 
When  smiling  suns  shone  midst  the  showers 

On  April's  day  of  tears. 


TO    MY   WIFE.  125 

We  would  some  scenes  could  be  forgot, 

Where  erring  footsteps  strayed, 
As  from  our  sight  recedes  the  spot 

Where  we  in  childhood  played. 

Far  back  amid  the  gathering  haze, 

Some  tears  we  know  were  shed ; 
For  broken  hearts  will  meet  our  gaze, 

Where  hope  's  for  ever  fled. 

Yet  'tis  not  all  a  blank  behind  ; 

And  if  some  are  asleep, 
The  flowers  must  fade  ere  we  can  find 

How  blessed  'tis  to  weep. 

What  though  we  meet  with  stormy  clouds, 

As  o'er  the  waves  we  fly ; 
Those  are  strong  hearts  that  climb  the  shrouds, 

When  mist  will  blind  the  eye. 


126  TO   MY   WIFE. 

We  pass  some  islands  where  the  bowers 

Invite  us  to  repose  ; 
But  'tis  a  life  which  is  not  ours, 

To  sleep  off  human  woes. 

The  glow  of  youthful  hours  will  fade 
From  out  our  hearts,  my  wife ; 

But  may  no  darkness  come  to  shade 
Our  afternoon  of  life  ! 


127 


SLAVERY. 


3.    H. 


THERE  is  a  voice  of  lamentation  heard,  — 
A  voice  of  wailing  o'er  the  wide-spread  land  : 
Oppression  still  doth  wield  her  cruel  sword, 
Our  brethren  still  are  crushed  beneath  her  iron 
hand. 

And  on  our  history's  page  this  is  a  stain, 
And  deeper  now  than  e'er  was  known  before  : 
Oh !  will  it  e'er  be  written  clear  and  plain  ? 
Will  justice  ever  wake,  and  slavery  be  no  more  ? 

But  ah !  the  theme  's  full  oft  by  poets  sung, 
And  noble  powers  are  called  the  cause  to  aid ; 
Oft  listening  crowds  on  eloquence  have  hung, 
And  life-like  scenes  have  been  by  able  hands  por 
trayed. 


128  SLAVERY. 

But  man  alone  cannot  this  work  achieve ; 
His  strength  and  power  will  insufficient  prove, 
Unless  a  Holy  Hand  doth  him  relieve,  — 
Unless  assisted  by  that  Higher  Power  above. 

And  if  man's  heart  in  mercy  will  not  bow, 
God's  judgments  then  will  surely  be  displayed  ; 
And  when  "  it  is  enough  "  he  's  pleased  to  show, 
Then  will  oppression  cease,  and  all  her  waves  be 
stayed. 

But  with  us  is  no  other  slavery  found 
Than  that  which  binds  the  sons  of  Afric's  land  ? 
Oh,  yes  !  a  poisoned  cup  is  flowing  round, 
Whose  victims,  captive-bound,  are  seen  on  every 
hand. 

Yes,  they  are  bound  as  by  a  threefold  cord ; 
For  that  which  crushes  body,  soul,  and  mind, 
Is  slavery  vastly  more  to  be  deplored 
Than  that  which  can  with  chains  alone  the  body  bind. 


SLAVERY.  129 

Here,  too,  a  mighty  effort  has  been  made, 
Already  doth  the  tide  of  suffering  stay: 
These  labors  will,  if  Heaven  but  bless  their  aid, 
Hasten  the  coming  of  a  brighter,  better  day. 

And  there  is  yet  the  bondage  felt  by  all, 
Of  sin,  by  which  our  every  soul  is  bound, 
Until  repentance  we  have  known  within, 
And  through  our  Saviour's  blood  we  have  redemp 
tion  found. 

Thrice  happy  he  by  sin  no  more  enslaved! 

He  may  be  called  a  son  of  liberty ; 

His  soul  hath  been  from  earth's  worst  thraldom 

saved,  — 
For  he  is  free  indeed,  who  'a  by  the  truth  made 

free. 

His  heartfelt  prayers  will  rise  for  all  mankind, 
His  love  will  then  extend  from  sea  to  sea : 


130  SLAVERY. 

He  then  will  stretch  a  helping  hand  to  save 
Earth's  crushed  and  bleeding  ones,  where'er  their 
lot  may  be. 

Clintondale,  1853. 


131 


DEATH    OF    PAUL    DOMBET. 


M.    G.    P. 


"  The  golden  ripple  on  the  wall  came  back  again,  and  nothing  else 
stirred  in  the  room.  The  old,  old  fashion !  The  fashion  that  came  in 
with  our  first  garments,  and  will  last  unchanged  until  our  race  has  run 
its  course,  and  the  wide  firmament  is  rolled  up  like  a  scroll.  The  old, 
old  fashion,  Death!  "  —  DOMBET  AND  SON. 


PALE,  within  that  silent  chamber, 

Statue-like,  decked  for  the  tomb, 
Lay  the  boy  so  tranquil  seeming ; 
"While  the  golden  sunlight,  streaming, 

Took  from  thence  the  deathly  gloom. 
Noiseless  stepped  the  little  Florence 

Through  the  open  chamber-door ; 
For  she  knew  her  dearest  treasure 

Soon  would  go  to  come  no  more. 


132  DEATH. 

Joyously  the  golden  sunlight 

Dances  shadowy  on  the  wall, 
Playing  o'er  the  cherub-features 

Of  her  darling  brother  Paul. 
"  "Why  should  angel-voices  tempt  thee/ 

Cried  she  then  in  deepest  woe, 
M  Leaving  me  alone  in  anguish  ? 

Would  that  /with  thee  could  go ! " 

Dreary  now  appeared  life's  pathway, 

Since  her  brightest  hopes  had  fled  ; 
Earth  for  her  had  no  more  pleasure, 

Now  that  little  Paul  was  dead. 
"What  to  her  that  consolation 

"Which  was  to  the  mourners  given, 
That  the  dust  to  dust  returneth, 

Spirits  wing  their  way  to  heaven  ? 

Proud  and  cold  as  was  the  father, 
Terrible  was  his  distress, 


DEATH.  133 

As  in  agony  he  bended 

Over  him  he'd  fain  caress. 
In  his  heart's  cold,  dreary  chamber, 

Now  the  light  of  love  was  gone  ; 
Nought  could  e'er  illume  the  darkness, 

As  through  earth  he  plodded  on. 

Fleeting  hopes  of  bright  ambition  ! 

Avarice  !  thy  toil  was  vain ; 
Valueless  the  heaping  coffers,  — 

Death  has  loosed  the  silver  chain. 
Oh  !  how  dark  his  soul,  and  gloomy, 

When  he  yielded  to  his  grief! 
But  his  stern  heart,  so  rebellious, 

Sought  in  vain  to  find  relief. 

Ever  thus  he  darkly  muttered : 

"  "Why  should  Death  my  treasure  take  ? 

He  was  all  I  had  to  cherish ; 
Lived  I  only  for  his  sake. 


134  DEATH. 

Surely,  then,  no  right  had  Heaven 

Cruelly  to  call  my  son  : 
Death  has  snatched  my  worshipped  idol ; 

Household  gods  —  I  have  not  one. 
Lurid  clouds  are  overhanging 

All  this  grandeur,  pomp,  and  pride  ; 
Would  to  God,  my  daughter  Florence 

For  her  brother  could  have  died ! " 

Truly,  then,  it  seemed  appalling, 

While  he  felt  the  stunning  blow ; 
All !  save  Pride,  thus  careless  spurning, 

In  his  darkest  hour  of  woe. 
On  his  soul  a  weight  now  rested ; 

Hourly  sank  the  shaft  more  deep  ; 
And  his  daughter's  love,  so  needed, 

Pie  was  yet  too  proud  to  keep. 

Pride  !  what  pangs  of  woe  and  anguish 
Ever  revel  in  thy  train  ! 


DEATH.  135 

Senseless  mortal !  hope  has  vanished, 

All  thy  trust  was  in  a  name. 
Virtue,  Truth,  and  Love,  most  holy, 

Florence,  these  will  be  thy  stay ; 
Through  thy  sorrows  Heaven  will  lead  thee, 

Time  shall  wear  thy  grief  away. 

Nantucket,  1853. 


THE    END. 


YB  78093 


